


Sentiment

by kittymsmith



Series: Random Snippets that are Hopefully Funny of Two Dorks In Love: Sherlock and Molly [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drabble, F/M, Musing, POV Sherlock Holmes, Short, There be dragons, and for them be a dragon slayer, quote inspiration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 12:31:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17224148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittymsmith/pseuds/kittymsmith
Summary: "He himself was immune to sentiment. That sickly thing that slithered around hearts and ensnared them like a serpent. Once exposed there was no escape, he’d seen it, and he’d learned to avoid it and developed his immunity over decades of practice. But what Sherlock hadn’t realized was he was wrong. Sentiment had invaded his heart long ago, he’d just made sure to hide it better. But he wasn’t doing that anymore. "----------A short drabble on sentiment, by Sherlock.





	Sentiment

**Author's Note:**

> This is a slight diverging in style from the usual fics in this series; less comedy focus, more of a musing inspired by a quote from the show. I began writing it around 1:30am and finished around 2:30. I really should not be up at all and I will probably regret it in the morning. 
> 
> But for now, I'm just excited to publish it, had fun writing it. :)

Sherlock Holmes had once said that sentiment was a chemical defect found on the losing side. He meant it then, and he knew its truth now. Sentiment instilled meaning and need where it did not belong; it was what made the most common passwords birthdays, anniversaries, deaths and accomplishments. It was what killed, the despicable tenderness innate in all beings, the nostalgic attachment that prevented marriages from ending until the last bit of marrow was sucked from the bone and all that was left was a dead structure one misstep from breaking. In all his years' sentiment had been the main component in his success; the dragons flying over London held dearly their imperfect mortal loves to their hearts. Sherlock enjoyed the chase of these dragons but once he caught up to them it was a simple stab in a simple place and all was over. If not for sentiments easily spottable glow, he might at least get a fight.

He himself was immune to sentiment. That sickly thing that slithered around hearts and ensnared them like a serpent. Once exposed there was no escape, he’d seen it, and he’d learned to avoid it and developed his immunity over decades of practice. But what Sherlock hadn’t realized was he was wrong. Sentiment had invaded his heart long ago, he’d just made sure to hide it better. But he wasn’t doing that anymore. He was holding Molly Hooper’s hand in the shop while she debated which milk to buy. He’d walked all through the store listening to her and commenting back like it mattered and rubbing her forefinger with his thumb because he liked how soft her hands were. In the freezer aisle, she’d complained about forgetting her coat and he’d pulled his open and wrapped it around her, holding her close and walking like a penguin until she, laughing, broke free.

When they were done he’d be at her house where he had several spare suits and shampoo and a razor that she’d gotten a little caddy for. There was a candid of him drinking coffee in his house robe on her desk he hated but never said so because she adored it so much. And later she’d be coming over to 221B where she had her own drawer in the bathroom and outfits set aside. She had her own bloody chair, next to his, that would tell anyone that walked inside there was someone dear to Sherlock there frequently. It was a dangerous, foolish, ridiculous, asinine thing. A weakness that glowed in his chest for any dragon in all of London’s skies to strike.

They stood under the awning in the rain, each holding a shopping bag. “Sherlock?”

He looked down. Molly’s brow was knit. “You seem distant.”

“Thinking.”

“About what?”

He looked forward. “How much of a loser I am.”

“What?” Molly stepped back, then around to look up at him, concern written in her eyes and on her lips.

His own lips, the corners, were twitching. “I’m a loser, Molly. I’m losing-no, no I quite believe I’ve lost.” His face cracked into a grin. “I’m the biggest loser in all of London!”

Molly’s eyes widened. “Are you quite alright?”

“I am!” He waved down a cab, feeling a certain, unexpected lightness as he took the groceries and slid them in ahead of them and put a foot on the floor before turning to her. “I never realized how good it felt to lose. I understand why everyone does it so much.”

Molly cocked her head to the side, resembling a springer spaniel in Sherlock’s mind. “But losing doesn’t feel good, Sherlock.”

He beamed, which really seemed to confuse her. “It does in some battles.”

He pulled her inside and they sat together. Sentiment glowed in the dragon slayers heart, warm and bright and vulnerable.

 

And the dragons did not bother him for it. 


End file.
